House of Cards
by hell rings
Summary: AU. High school is a time of finding yourself, romance, blowing off homework, and watching your boyfriend undergo a severe mental breakdown. — Major trigger warnings for verbal and physical abuse, alcohol and drug use, graphic depictions of violence/gore, psychological trauma, and multiple character deaths.
1. 00

"Squalo? Can you do me a couple of favors?"

Sitting at the top of the stairs, Belphegor slowly wipes the blood staining his free hand onto his black pants, staring blankly in front of him. His other trembles slightly as he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for the sleepy reply from Squalo. He feels devoid of all emotion and empty as the pill bottles in his trash can; he sees stars ahead of him, bursting silently in the synapses rapidly firing in his brain. Still, everything feels like slow motion; the colors blur like a smudge oil painting, and his hands are freezing.

Maybe he's a little shaken.

On the other end, Squalo yawns loudly and then swears under his breath in sharp irritation. "The fuck do you want?" He sounds uncharacteristically quiet, but abrasive as he always is at the same time. "It's four in the goddamn _morning_, dipshit." He mutters under his breath about hanging up the phone, but he doesn't. He never does.

An ice cold wave of dizziness washes over Belphegor. "I fucked up, Squalo. Real bad." Violently shivering, Bel scoots to the side so that he can lean against the wall while he sits; he considers the feeling of swimming, of floating listlessly in the green-grey Mediterranean waves. "Do you believe in Hell?"

Squalo's heart tightens. There isn't much he can do for Bel here, like this; Squalo lives on the other side of town, where the prostitutes walk at night and drug busts happen on a near daily basis. The bad side of town, where break-ins are rampant and children get murdered in their homes. Bel was fortunate enough to have been born to an outrageously wealthy man on the good side of town—nothing bad ever happens on that side, but the silver haired teen is beginning to think differently about that now. "Look, I don't have time for your theological bullshit. What do you mean you 'fucked up'?" Squalo's voice is low; concerned, but impatient. Bel is silent on the other line. When he doesn't receive an answer, Squalo presses, hard as steel. "What did you do? Answer me."

Bel can hear the sheets of the other's bed shifting in the background as Squalo gets up, the creak of the springs. It's 4:17 am, and they have school in the morning. His mouth is dry.

"I blacked out—I don't know what happened." He knows exactly what happened, but he doesn't remember actually doing it, except in vague snippets. It's fuzzy in his head, and no matter how many times he tries to think back to it, he just watches them die again. His arms hurt and there are gashes on both palms of his hands.

Stigmata.

"What did you _do_?"

Drop.

The metallic taste of blood greets Bel's senses after he bites the tip of his tongue, rigidly, nervously. He shivers again for a different reason; he feels it inside him, that illness that he never wanted. The blonde glances off to the side, and covers his mouth with his hand when he sees an arm outstretched towards him on the floor. He feels so sick, so sick, and the note wrapped in plastic, crumpled up in his pocket only causes his stomach to sink even further. "I'll tell you at the bridge," he whispers, voice hoarse. "But only there, okay? Just meet me at the bridge as soon as possible. It's important."

That isn't enough for Squalo; it sounds like he drops his cellphone onto the floor and scrambles to retrieve it. He knows something is terribly wrong, but it's hard getting it out of the brat when he gets like this. "Bel, tell me what you _did_." A door slams on Squalo's end. "I won't—I won't tell anyone else if you don't want me to." Desperation creeps into his tone. Bel feels worse.

Swallowing, the blonde stands and slowly, carefully walks down the stairs and trails his free hand along the wall. His blood follows like a painted shadow.

He can hear Squalo shouting to him over the phone while he goes about in a manic rush, saying reassuring things to him and pleading to know what the fuck he did. It's a nice sentiment, but Bel doesn't want to hear it. Everything is cold—_the heating in the house isn't working right; his dad was going to call someone to fix it after lunch—_and the scent of death is beginning to become hard to bear.

A shard of glass embeds itself into the sole of his boot.

He feels so goddamn sick.

He is so goddamn sick.

The synapses fire wrong, distort him. He feels like he's buzzing so loudly that no one else can hear it. Bel steps on a bloodied hand and almost trips. His feet are unsteady, and he swears he heard a bone or two crunch. Proximal phalanges, metacarpals. Distal. Twenty seven bones multiplied by four; scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate. Too much. "Hey," he suddenly interrupts Squalo's rambling, almost whimpering the word like a scared child lost in an unfamiliar place. "Send the cops to my house."

"_What?_"

"Just do it. I'm hanging up now. I'm sorry."

"Belphegor, wait—"

Quickly ending the call, Bel shudders and throws his expensive phone to the side. The clack that reverberates in the air as it hits the marble floor is enough to cause the blonde to double over at the bottom of the stairs, one hand covering his mouth again while his other holds his stomach. Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up. Calm down. Calm down.

Calm down.

His father's head is facing him. The rest of his body is five feet away, next to Rasiel's corpse, as if he were still trying to protect him. He tried so hard to protect Rasiel, the precious one. Prodigal son.

Bel looks at their bodies and can't stop looking—it's been over an hour since he killed them both, and the smell is oppressive now and his father's eyes won't stop staring straight at him no matter where he moves in the house. Rasiel's golden hair is matted with rapidly drying blood, and his mouth is outstretched in agony. He can still hear the way he was screaming for him to stop, begging for help and for mercy.

_God please let me die kill me kill me please kill me pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum thy kingdom come thy kingdom come thy kingdom_

Belphegor shakes and his breathing gets rapid because he doesn't remember, why doesn't he fucking remember? Mammon would be so pissed at him for all of this—he made such a mess.

_You're a disgusting piece of shit._

The synapses tell him to get out of the house when his phone rings, and it's much louder than he would have anticipated. It's Squalo who's calling him for sure, but there's no chance that Bel is going to answer. If Squalo phoned the police like he was told to, it should be about fifteen more minutes for them to arrive. Nothing bad ever happens on this side of town. The grass grows green and bright, and the houses are palaces in their own right—grand and beautiful, all painted picturesque white hues. The sun shines upon them, and the moon hangs sweet above them.

Belphegor feels sacrilegious as he steps over the bodies of his family, and he accidentally laughs when his shoes track their blood on the floor. It looks black in the absence of light in the house, and Bel knows he's going to Hell for sure; no one is supposed to laugh at their dead family, laying on the floor like animals. He clenches his fists, shaking still—he doesn't stop shaking, not once—and heads to the front door, ignoring the sound of his footsteps. The door opens silently, and he exits his house for the last time without looking back at the sin inside.

The air is fresh, and he has to blink rapidly when he feels tears sting at his eyes. This isn't supposed to be happening. This doesn't happen to sixteen year old kids—but the blood and guts on his clothes and skin and hair burn and stain and mar him like acid corrodes, and he hopes to God that Squalo will understand that he meant for none of this to happen. Belphegor takes off running down the street in the direction of the bridge, breathing raggedly, heart and legs pumping as fast as they can. This wasn't supposed to happen—not like this. Not like this.

He hopes he goes to Hell, wishes for it with all his damn body.

* * *

**A/N**: Welcome to the rather foreboding prologue of House of Cards! This is pretty much my terrible attempt at a deconstructed high school AU—actions will have real world consequences. Some character ages have been modified for them all to fit closer within the same age range, and they're all normal teenagers. No fantastic powers, no mafia games, and no outlandish backstories. That is to say, of course I will be drawing from canon to keep the characters as IC as possible.

As you may have gathered, House of Cards isn't going to be a happy story either, and it deals with numerous amounts of triggering subjects. To list things off the top of my head that are going to be involved in later chapters is murder/death, mental illness and trauma, various disorders, homophobia, verbal, physical, and mental abuse, drug use, alcoholism, graphic violence and gore, and _maybe_ a couple of mentions of sex. Please proceed with caution if you find any of these things too hard to stomach.

Thanks for reading!


	2. 01

Tossing a rock into the river, Belphegor pouts a little when it doesn't go as far as he had hoped—it unceremoniously plops into the water, and the ripples it create are carried away by the heavy current. Rapids, wide too. The blonde sighs to himself and turns to face Squalo, lying in the tall grass twenty feet away, with the crook of his elbow over his eyes to block out the hot rays of the afternoon sun beating down on the pair.

This has probably been the laziest day all year, and the incessant buzz and hum of insects is a reminder to the dying summer. A hot, late September day is enough to put anyone to sleep, but the blonde feels more restless than anything.

"Hey, Squalo?" Bel tilts his head to the side and momentarily considers grabbing a stick and throwing it at the other to get his attention, but he ultimately decides against that in favor of playing nice for a while. Instead, he creeps through the yellowing grass, grinning as it brushes against the pants of his school uniform, and stops about a foot away from Squalo. His impossibly long silver hair—reflecting white to assault Belphegor's eyes—is spanned out around him like a mandorla, almost engulfing his form.

Despite his futile attempt at feigning sleep, Squalo does notice when Belphegor blocks out the sun that was previously shining in his eyes. "What, twerp?" The unmistakable tone of sleep deprivation weighs down his voice, but he doesn't sound particularly annoyed with Bel. Slowly, Squalo moves his arm so he can narrow his eyes at the blonde, who simply smiles in response.

"I'm bored," he starts, earnestly, and puts his hands behind his back. The boy leans forward a bit, bending slightly at the waist, and looks directly down at Squalo—the older of the pair can see the outline of an eye, partially obscured by the curtain of hair, but it's not uncovered enough to make out any real details.

Figures. The stupid kid has a penchant for theatrics, and never showing his damn eyes to anyone is about as dramatic as one can get.

Belphegor lazily prods Squalo's shoulder with a foot, silently demanding that he get the fuck up. "Let's see who can throw a rock the farthest."

"Are you kidding me? I thought you were, like, gonna be seventeen in a few months. Not _seven_." In defiance, Squalo places his arm over his face again. "I can't even look at you. I'm too embarrassed."

Snorting, Bel lowers down to sit on his knees beside the other. "Funny." He reaches out and grabs a lock of Squalo's hair—it's hilarious the way that he stiffens, but otherwise does nothing about it. "Your hair is soft."

"Well, I do this thing called bathing—"

"Soft like a girl's."

Squalo lets his arm fall to the side so he can send a glare in Belphegor's direction.

He promptly lets go of the other's hair, and starts laughing a little harder than necessary. "You're so damn sensitive, oh my god."

"Oh? Who was it again who nearly broke my fuckin' wrist when I accidentally touched their hair that one time? I think you're the sensitive one here." Squalo raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Bel looks less than impressed for being reminded of that incident, but stands. He dusts off his knees, and lightly kicks at the grass. He accidentally crushes a flower. "Can you just get up?"

Squalo splays his arms out, looking like an attempt to make the wings of a snow angel in the grass. "Why? I'm exhausted, dickhead. Ma invited a bunch of her floozy friends over last night and they wouldn't let me go to fucking sleep." He turns his head to the side and watches a bug crawl through the blades of grass. "I don't see why the hell anyone would want to play music so loudly that late, drunk or not." The bug disappears through a small hole burrowed into the ground; the silver haired teen rolls over and absently sticks a finger into the indention in the earth, effectively destroying the entrance—and, more importantly, the exit.

Bel curls his lips at that. Squalo is weird as literal fuck when he's tired. "Okay, well, you should get up anyways."

"You've just regressed to a six year old."

"Eat shit."

Squalo groans loudly and gives up—Bel isn't going to let him rest, no matter what he decides, is he? At least if he goes along with what he wants, the brat will stop whining so much. "Ugh, fine. You know what? We'll subtract a decade from our ages and make it a fucking day." He puts his arms over his head and then throws them forward, letting the momentum allow him to carry his weight up so that he's standing, much taller than Belphegor. He puts his hands on the back of his neck and looks at the clear, baby-blue sky above him—it's irritatingly bright and warm, and there are no clouds in sight. Why Bel wanted to dick around outside today will remain a mystery to him. He slides his gaze to look at the blonde, but isn't surprised to see that he's already ran back to the riverbank again, hopping up and down like a hyperactive dog that would probably be better off put down.

Why does he hang out with him again?

Begrudgingly, Squalo trudges over to the riverside, grabbing a pebble along the way, and disinterestedly tosses it towards the fast moving water. It barely makes it a few feet past the shore, and bounces off a rock peeking out of the waves.

Even the rush of the river doesn't drown out Bel's giggles. "That was the most pathetic thing I've ever witnessed, Squalo," he laughs, and then draws back his arm and flings a rock—it seamlessly glides through the air, and finally hits the water around the middle of the river. He reaches down and grabs two more, throwing one of them out again. It doesn't make it quite as far this time, but he looks rather pleased with himself anyways.

Belphegor grins up at Squalo and expectantly holds out the second rock. "Here."

Squalo blinks. "... What?"

"You're being boring on purpose, aren't you?"

Rolling his eyes and yanking the remaining rock out of Bel's hand, Squalo holds it above the blonde's head and out of his reach. "Why would I ever want to bore you? You're already a pain in my ass when you're entertained." He pretends that he's about to drop it on Bel's head, but at the last minute, he slings the rock out over the river—it goes considerably farther than Belphegor's previous throws, almost reaching the other side.

Looking back to Bel, he tilts his head to the side and frowns. "Happy?"

Bel mimics Squalo's head tilt, but wears his familiar, all too wide smile. "Not yet."

He doesn't wait for a response, and instead jumps at Squalo, arms outstretched to wrap around the other's shoulders. He latches onto him and laughs when the two of them fall; Squalo lets out a startled yell and grits his teeth when his back hits the hard, rock covered ground. One of the rocks jab into what feels to be a goddamn _kidney_ or some shit. "The hell is your problem?!" He lets out a hiss to relieve the pain, and it helps in some kind of way, but not much.

Bel's mouth forms an 'o', and he pushes himself up to sit casually on Squalo's waist. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says innocently, and then leans forward and grabs the other's wrists, efficiently pinning Squalo down.

Of course, he could easily push Belphegor off of him if he wanted to.

Does he want to?

Sort of, honestly.

With a huff of resignation, the silver haired teen surrenders and lets the idiot continue to sit on him. He's too tired to argue with Bel right now, and it's been a while since the kid has been in such a good mood. There's a moment of silence between them, other than the occasional audible breath from one of them, and the two just stare at each other. There's no one else here but them and the roar of the rapids, and the occasional spray when the waves lap too close to the jutting rock outcrops close to the shore.

It seems like a decent time to do a… couple-thing, but Squalo isn't willing to make the first move, and he knows that Bel is aware that he's pushing it. It's kind of awkward, the more he thinks about it, and the way Bel is sitting on his hips, rather suggestively with his thighs spread out on either of his sides, isn't helping him out any.

Squalo suddenly clears his throat, glancing off to the side so that he doesn't have to look at the blonde. "Are you just gonna sit there?"

"Are you gonna do anything about it if I say yes?" Bel sounds just as humble as before—he's obviously having fun, toothy smile betraying his tone. "Why don't you pin me down instead?" He giggles, licking his lips, and tightens his grip on him. It almost hurts—Bel's fingers are thin and bony like the rest of him, and his nails sharp, digging incessantly into the tender skin of Squalo's inner wrists.

And this isn't really putting him in the mood to flirt back with him.

"You do realize that I could throw you into the river right now, yeah?" Shifting under the other, Squalo works on loosening Belphegor's hold on him—it isn't very hard at all, actually, and his hands are soon enough freed without much effort on his behalf. His back feels a bit relieved as well. "You weight as much as a sack of potatoes. Do you ever eat?"

"I eat all the time," Bel replies with a sudden frown, pulling back just a bit. His lips twitch, and he composes himself again—all charms and maddening expressions that would put the Joker to shame. "Was that supposed to be an insult, Squalo?"

Ugh.

Squalo huffs, and pushes himself up to rest his weight on his elbows. "No, you're just practically a tiny-ass midget and you're more annoying than that wimpy Vongola kid and his gang. Get off, will ya? I can't feel my legs, moron."

"You're contradicting yourself now." Bel's lips quirk into another one of his little knowing smiles, and he lazily stretches his arms before him before he languidly stands. He gracefully steps to the side and offers a hand to Squalo to help him up off the ground—as soon as Squalo goes to accept the hand, Bel quickly withdraws from him and kicks him in the side, playfully, but it hurts more than necessary regardless.

"Fuck! Are you a fuckin' sociopath or some shit?" Squalo growls and ambles up to stand, putting a hand on the spot where Bel's booted foot made its impact. "You can't go around kicking people when you damn well please, asshole. You don't even make any fucking sense either; two minutes ago you wanted me to get up, and next thing I know you're throwing me to the ground. Make up your mind, piss for brains." Squalo slaps a hand to his face in exasperation, patience wearing thin with the immature blonde—he peeks between his fingers, and slumps his shoulders when he sees Belphegor ignoring him, heading up the steep, grassy hill that leads to the road to get to the bridge.

The silver haired teen watches him with an incredulous expression—is Bel going to make doing this a habit? If so, he's being, at the very least, two hundred times more annoying than usual. "Oi! Wait up, fucker!" He takes long strides after the kid, and isn't shocked when Bel begins running up the hill rather than waiting for him after Squalo _politely_ asked.

"You're way too slow," Belphegor calls back, triumphant, when he reaches the top. He goes to stand in the middle of the two-lane road, looking out for cars that may drive by. People enjoy speeding here; it's a dangerous area, which could possibly explain why Bel likes it so much. On either side of the road are drop offs, sheer cliffs in some parts, and nearly two dozen people have died from accidentally driving off the roads and into the river, or falling in, over the years. Despite that, it doesn't make it any less of a popular spot—the river draws people to the expanse, and it isn't rare for social gatherings to happen in the shaded space under bridge, graffiti art painting the concrete and stone like one of Michelangelo's murals.

The 'social gatherings,' naturally, being drunken brawls.

In the middle of the street-art mural is the Varia's tag, their crest. The day they came up with that was perfect—the smell of cheap paint fumes and the heat of July three years ago on their backs, the taste of orange vodka burning their insides like small fires.

It was one of the only times Bel had ever seen Xanxus smile.

* * *

Squalo drums the fingers of his good hand—his real hand, not the prosthetic one—against the stone railing of the bridge, sixty feet above the rushing water. Belphegor is on his right, standing carefully on the banister. It's approximately a foot wide; enough space for someone bored enough to stand on, and parts of it are chipped due to weathering. Occasionally Bel paces, much to Squalo's irritation, and he's once or twice attempted to either grab his leg and pull him down or push him off the ledge and into the ravine just to get him to fucking _stop_.

"Do you ever quit moving around? Lately you seem… jittery, you know?" He watches as Bel drop some pocket lint out of one hand while he clings to a support beam with his other—the fluff catches the wind and floats aimlessly through the air, slowly descending, until it snags onto the branch of a nearby pine tree.

Squalo's eyes follow it, and bites the inside of his cheek. "You even listenin'?"

"Yeah, I'm listening." Bel tilts his head back to peek at the other. "I just didn't feel like answering." He drops his arm from the beam and hops down onto the surface of the bridge, bending his knees on impact. "Perfect ten. I should be in the Olympics." The blonde snickers and rests against Squalo, getting comfortable beside him, with his head nestled into his chest.

The older boy pulls him closer, if anything to keep the kid still. And he's warm; they're both warm. Almost a little too warm, but Squalo feels imposed to blame it on the heat. A comfortable silence passes, and Squalo is thankful for the chilled breeze that lofts by, and the fact that Bel seems to be calming down a bit.

The lint that was caught by the tree isn't there anymore, and he's a little disappointed that he didn't see it go.

"I'm not _jittery_," Bel says after a while, not looking at the other. He stares out towards the direction of the sun, and Squalo can't help but to notice how clear his skin is, how soft his hair looks.

He can't help but to notice how, sometimes, he twitches.

Squalo sighs and squeezes his arm around Belphegor's shoulders, and gets the recurrent feeling that Bel isn't being as open with him as he claims he's been. Their relationship isn't always the most stable thing on the earth. Squalo likens it to the lint Bel released into the wind—they have their ups and downs, and sometimes they get stuck. But that's normal, isn't it? They always right themselves, unsnag from every obstacle that comes their way.

So why does this itch at him so much?

Belphegor snuggles closer. Squalo hopes he isn't sweating.

They need something to talk about.

"We should skip school more often."

Squalo blinks—Bel said that. "Yeah, we should." He nods robotically, but a little too quickly, and accidentally jostles Bel from their close position. The blonde laughs quietly and turns his head and presses an open mouth to Squalo's neck—he can feel Bel's teeth on his skin, he can feel his lips and smile.

Squalo instinctively leans his neck away so Bel can't reach anymore without straining.

He gets the hint and, stepping out of Squalo's hold, stretches his arms out towards the sky, like he was trying to grab for a cloud that isn't there, or trying to take grip of the wind. "Then again," Belphegor thoughtfully drawls, "if we skipped more often than we already do, we'd never be in class. You wouldn't even be allowed to graduate."

"I guess. You'd get held back too, dipshit."

Bel snorts. "I'm not the one supposed to be graduating this year." He suddenly drops his arms, and looks cheerful. "Guess what my dad called you last night."

"I have no fuckin' clue—_fag_?"

"No, he'd shit his own pants if he said that," Belphegor laughs, and the playfully jabs at Squalo's arm. "He called you a heathen."

The silver haired teenager pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why do you think I _care_?" He closes his eyes when Bel looks a little too happy as he shrugs in response, and lets out a sigh. "Give your old man my regards, right? I appreciate his commentary. He even know we're a thing?"

Belphegor idly plays with Squalo's sleeve—there's a small stain on the side; it looks like a spot of blood that cold water and citric acid couldn't dissolve away. "Again, no. You know my dad is super religious. He'd kill me for sure if he knew, and then you'd be out of luck." Tugging on Squalo's sleeve, Belphegor sticks out his tongue when the other shoots him a glare, warning him to stop.

"Why does your dad gotta be a little bi—" Squalo halts midsentence when both his and Bel's phones vibrate and buzz at the same time, his own playing a default chiptune to signify a received text message. The pair gives the other a puzzled look before checking their respective phones; it's Lussuria—

_'get to the theatre! NOW!'_

The demand is vague enough to catch their attention; Lussuria is the kind of guy who texts to have a full conversation, to plan events, or to spread wildfire gossip like it's his God given right—being vague just isn't his thing, and Squalo grits his teeth. Of course some stupid (and most likely, knowing Lussuria, melodramatic) shit would come up and interrupt their day.

Running a hand through his hair, Squalo pockets his phone in favor of ignoring the frantic request, and he watches Bel quickly type out a reply to their flamboyant friend. "What're you saying to him?"

"… That we'll be right there?" Bel tilts his head and finishes his message, returning his phone back into his pocket as well. "Unless you wanted me to tell him to fuck off. Theatre's Varia territory, so unless Luss decided that we should all have a movie night, something is probably going down." He grins, cheeky, and motions in the direction of town. "I'm kinda betting that the Vongola's been sticking their dumbass noses in our business."

"Ugh, don't remind me of those imps." Squalo begins to walk down the bridge with Bel, a stressed expression on his face. He walks a little too fast, legs and strides longer than Belphegor's, and the younger has to work to keep up. "Everything's been fucked up since the Arcobaleno gang split up and half of 'em joined the remaining groups, or just decided to not affiliate with anyone at all. No one gives a shit about loyalty anymore and it pisses me off."

Bel compulsively takes out his phone again and checks over the time—it's almost two. "Yeah," he says, slowly, drawing out the word. "But we got Mammon from that whole thing, and she's been pretty valuable to us."

Mammon—the town's local dealer, he means.

"Sometimes I don't know if you're joking or not," Squalo deadpans, and takes his keys off of the loop on his belt. They jingle, clinking together, too many keys to keep up with—he hoards them for a reason that escapes him at the moment—and he takes the time to find the one that goes to his car. The one with a blue spot on the hilt, that's the one he looks for, and he goes through half of the keys before he finds it. "Remind me to actually park at the bridge next time instead of a fucking mile away." He huffs, irritated more than he should be, and shields his eyes from the bright sun with his prosthetic hand.

His car isn't as far away as he makes it out to be, and the two pile in as soon as Squalo unlocks the doors. Neither bother with seat belts; Bel laughs at nothing and sits complacently in the passenger seat of Squalo's shitty car while he speeds toward the town's cinema, tires squealing against the hot pavement.

The radio plays Nena's 99 Luftballons, and they can't help but to sing along in bad German, fumbling around the foreign lyrics—and Bel watches Squalo's unnaturally colored hair shine in the light as they drive past the pine trees, past the dilapidated buildings in town, and watches the rustle and creases in his clothes as he turns slightly in his seat while steering. He imagines the muscles working under his skin, all six hundred and forty two of them (if not more), each tendon and ligament, working in sweet unison.

Bel's always been good at physiology.

And Squalo is kind of beautiful.

* * *

**A/N**: Here is the first official chapter of House of Cards! Sorry if it is a little boring compared to the first chapter; there will be a lot more action coming up soon, I promise!

And thank you to my wonderful friend and absolutely amazing beta reader, sea-salt kisses, for beating this chapter into shape for me because I'm a weenie with the editing skills of a pinecone.


End file.
